a life made of pages

Teaching is Learning, Reading is Breathing

The school year is nearly over, and so is the experiment of homeschooling my 4 and 7 year-olds. It’s funny that I always use the word “homeschooling” rather than “teaching” to describe what I’ve been doing this year. Why? In part because, if measured in concrete hours of instruction imparted by me to my sons, this year’s experiment ended up achieving WAY less than I’d hoped or expected. Lesson plans? Jotted on the backs of bank-statement envelopes as I rush to finish my coffee before the baby wakes up. (Yes, there’s been a baby in this mix as well.) It turns out that being a good high school English teacher does not automatically or easily equate to being a good elementary/preschool teacher-of-one’s-own-offspring-in-one’s-home. I’m tempted to give the year a failing grade–but I doubt my ability to judge this experiment as much as I doubt my ability to carry it out. Instead I’ll look for the positives:

My respect for and trust in the teachers of my children has gone way up. The default has become: they know more than I do.

The one activity that truly “worked” this year, day in and day out, was reading. I sat on the couch with my 8-yr-old on one side and my 4-yr-old on the other, and together we read book after book. Any length, any topic, any style: they were rapt and I was wrapped in the peace of knowing I was doing something right. Yet another scenario where entering a text brings life, breath, trustworthy realness. What a joy to enter that realm with my kids.